


Glass Prisons

by ATokenATrifle



Series: Khan Writing Prompts Collection [4]
Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, Star Trek: Into Darkness - Fandom
Genre: Angry Khan, Angry Sex, Dominance, F/M, Filth, Glass Prison, Good times, Hair Pulling, Khan Captured, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Smut, Submission, Throat grabbing, Your fault, delayed gratification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 18:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2318579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATokenATrifle/pseuds/ATokenATrifle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[This was a writing prompt]</p><p>Second in command behind John Harrison/Khan, one slip up sees you surrounded by Kirk & Crew. Khan surrenders, this is not the plan he had in mind. </p><p>Please bare with me, this is the first Star Trek based fic I've written; trying to get my head around the Star Trek Universe.... Please leave comments, good and bad. We never improve if people tell us we're good all the time! </p><p>We'll get to the good stuff next chapter!</p><p>Thanks for reading :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Surrender

You say nothing; they’re your orders. If cornered, if captured, you say nothing. You listen to him, not because you’re afraid but because you trust him and his plan implicitly. That was until you found yourself lying face first with a mouthful of Qo’nos dust. You listen to shuffling and hushed voices around you as they try and work out what to do with you.

He’s already been lead off in handcuffs, having willingly surrendered and you understand why. Again, on this, you trust his judgement. Following a fierce gun fight, you watch as Kirk pummels him with his fists over and over again. He doesn't flinch; in fact, he hardly moves. No marks, no bruise, no injury. Kirk could punch him all day with no reaction in the slightest.

Superhuman is a word that has been used to describe him. A creation and product of The Eugenics War, he is made of something different, any injury repairs quickly. The same cannot be said for you, though. The almighty sting that you can feel is your abdomen, something much deeper than a graze but not enough to raise concern. The same goes for the scratch on your cheek, another occupational hazard. You’re sure he’ll be able to fix it in due time.

Dragged to your feet, you’re ordered into the transporter. Still, you make no noise. Looking down you can see your uniform is full of rips and tears, your boots covered in dust and your long coat flaps about in the wind. Sparks and embers emit from the rocky outcrops.

You’re thrown into a chair across the chamber from him and he glares at you. You know you've slipped up; this is what’s lead to you both being captured in the first place. He’s surrendered to try and stay close to his torpedoes, but it’s not how he planned it and you’re aware that you’ll have to face his wrath. Presently, if his eyes could burn holes in you, they would.

A sting breaches your cheeks as a fist connects with your face and you can see him struggle against his bonds. His strong, solid, muscled body, clothed in his black uniform; a skilled and experienced fighter it would be nothing for him to kill everybody on board, you included. There is nothing he would not do for his crew, for his family, but at the moment you are both prisoners on your way to the Enterprise.


	2. Apologies

Once inside the confines of the Enterprise you are washed, wounds tended to, and escorted to your holding cell. You’re to be placed with him in his cell. He’s told Kirk what he wants to know, convinced him of your position and, so, you hold no threat. 

The door to the cell is closed behind you and you stand helpless in front of your Commander. As the second in charge you were required to follow his instructions to the letter, and you didn’t. He stands broad shouldered, back towards the glass window of The Brig, his head dropped and eyes watching you as you move further inside the cell. 

“Lieutenant Commander,” Kirk has returned and demands your attention. 

Your Commander turns to face Kirk, blocking his line of sight to you, and scowls, “She is of no use to you,” his voice is seething, “Should you wish to continue to receive my cooperation, you will not call upon her again,” 

Kirk looks blinkered for a moment, before turning on his heel and walking out; body tense and fists clenched. You take his protection as a sign that you could perhaps speak to him, explain to him, apologise to him. 

“Commander -,” your voice trembles; he could very well crush you in a moments’ notice. 

His body turns back to face you slowly, his face tight and angry, and blue eyes blazing. He has washed since being on the ship also; that explains why you were separated so long upon entering the ship. 

“My name...,” he growls, “Is Khan,” teeth bared and eyes wild, you’re taken aback by his anger. 

“Sir,” you step forward at the exact moment he also steps forward, further closing the gap between you, “You were in danger,”

“I was in no such position,” he snakes toward you now, solid, deliberate footsteps. 

He’s close now, very close. So close that you can hear the oxygen rushing through his nose; in and out, in and out, in a steady rhythm. Your body is completely still, but your eyes follow him as he circles, around and around; a lion stalking its dinner and it makes you uneasy. You’ve come to blows over procedure, purpose and plot before, but this time it’s different. He’s definitely angry. 

And it’s your fault. 

“Is this a game to you?” he’s in your right ear. 

“No sir,” you stare straight ahead as he returns to your vision on your left side. 

“Why do you insist on disobeying my direct orders?” his anger bubbles up through a slow and steady voice and he’s standing in front of you again. 

“As I stated before, you were in danger, sir,” you know if you’re going to get anywhere with him, you need to play his game so you are equally as strong and steady in  
your response. 

He knows you’re scared, though, your breathing is erratic. 

“I can take care of myself,” he reasons, moving away from you. 

Moving back toward the glass of The Brig he starts pacing, and you join him. Slowly at first, up and back, calmly, before you both fall into a pattern. You’re circling each other now, up and down, backward and forward, around and around. His hair sits perfectly, not a strand out of place, ample muscle and taught physique highlighted by a tight fitted uniform. This man trained you to be like him, to think like him, to fight like him. 

Many planning meetings have started and ended this way. You think the same and you operate the same. You are his second in command but his equal in many other ways. Fierce, loyal and protective of those you love, you have often come to blows while planning the way forward for your team. However, now Kirk has your entire crew it is left to the two of you alone to reclaim them and secure your future. 

“Kirk has our entire crew,” he’s pacing again, “That is why I surrendered. The torpedos are here, our crew is here, on board this ship,” 

“If something were to happen -,”

“Nothing is going to happen to me. You know that,” his voice terse, still stalking you around the room as you are him. 

You both stop, your heads snapping around instinctively towards a noise. It’s the Enterprise crew; it’s getting late and they retreat to their cabins for night rest. Lights are dimmed in The Brig and you have only enough light left to make out each others’ outline. 

“Your wounds, were you tended to?” He asks, relaxing slightly. 

“They were, yes, though their medical team leaves much to be desired,” 

“Let me see,” he demands, closing the gap between the two of you, “Now,” 

He can already see the graze on your face, standing closer to you than is necessary. Reaching forward, he touches it and you wince, the slightest murmur of apology passing his lips. It’s not like him to willingly apologise; so headstrong, focused and brutal, and yet this is not the first time you have brought him around to an apology. 

“It’s my fault, don’t apologise,” you cajole. 

“That’s right, this is your fault. I had this under control,” he lifts the top of your uniform and squats to look at the gash across your abdomen, “They will pay for this,”

You offer your apologies again and he dismisses you. This is the situation and you must deal with it as is. One guard is placed on the outside of each door, so you’re left in this room alone. No eyes on you. Khan inspects your wound and you flinch, pulling back quickly, a reflex reaction. A firm grip on your hip, the other holding your top up, his eyes snap up at you in the light. 

“I’m sorry,” you offer the simplest apology you can think off. 

He stands to meet your gaze, eyes searching in the dull light, hands still in place as they were. 

“You are my family,” his anger controlled, sated, and his voice is a low rumble, “There is nothing I would not do for you,”

There’s one other thing he’s taught you; to fuck like him.


	3. Denials

“Are you injured?” you voice is low against his as you search his face for anything. 

“No, I’m fine,” his head drops with a sharp shake, and his eyes rise to meet yours once again. 

The air pops and crackles around you, the both of you drinking each other in. You’re both safe, or safe enough for the time being. 

“If anything happened to you,” you reach out and place a palm against his cheek. 

His eyes close slowly and he nuzzles into your palm. Not prone to outward affection, you take this while you can. Everything is battle, everything is business, and this is just a distraction, but you hold him there, his hands still with a tight grip on your waist. 

“No, if anything happened to you,” his eyes glisten, “I won’t let them hurt you. You’re mine and I need you to help me. No one else has been able to match your skill, your fight,” he moves away from you again, turning slowly.

“Of course I’m yours,” and you couldn't think of anyone else you’d want to say that to, “What do you need from me?” 

He seems momentarily distracted, looking at your pants, “They made you redress in these rags?”

“They did,” 

His large fist pounds on the door of the brig, which is answered by a young guard who slides a peephole open. He demands new clothing for you and you wait as he runs over his next plan with you. By the time your guard returns and shoves a pair of pants through the slot in the door, Khan is angry again, worked up and arguing through combat plans with you. He wants out of this cage and you out of this cage. 

Angrily, he grabs at the pants as they fall to the floor, before throwing them at you and demanding you change. Nothing to hide, you unbuckle your boots and slip them off before unzipping your pants. He turns to give you privacy and you scoff, audibly. His head snaps around at you, frown lines present, and you can spot the scar on his lip; the one you gave him, and you smile at the memory.

“You think this is a joke?”

“I think you’ve seen this before, so you don’t need to pretend to be a gentleman,” your lip twitches at the corners, “Also, your scar. I was thinking about your scar,” 

His body loosens immediately. Hand to hand combat training, and you had somehow managed to corner him and let a punch crack at the edge his mouth. He rubs his lips now, remembering what you are, and the aftermath in the training hall. Handpicked for you speed, agility and brain, he then took you on the floor of the training hall for what felt like an eternity, leaving you gasping for breath and sore in the best possible way. 

His eyes are burning now and you know why, because yours are, too. He closes the gap between the two of you again. You trust him, so don’t flinch when you see a hand snap up towards your head, his fist wrapped up in your ponytail as he pulls your head back in a swift jerk. Both still and watching each other, heavy breathing the only sound in the room and you smile at him knowing what’s coming next. 

You pull his face in toward you, embracing him with a desperate kiss, biting his bottom lip a bit harder than needed. He pulls you flush up against his body before tearing at what’s left of your underwear, sending it tumbling to the floor beneath you. Using your own strength you pull yourself up onto him, arms grasped around his neck and ankles crossed over behind his back. An appreciative groan escapes his mouth as he walks you both back toward the wall. 

Fumbling at his zip, he’s soon free from his pants, only loosening them enough to perform the task ahead. Suddenly, and without warning he drives himself into you and you cry out in surprise and your head slackens against the wall of your prison as you feel your body stretch and move to accommodate him, all of him. 

He’s not gentle but you trust him not to hurt you and, frankly, you enjoy it. He’s pinned one of your hands behind your head, leaving you only on hand free to hold onto him with and you do that by clutching at a handful of his hair; his perfect black hair crunched up between your fingers as he has his way with you over and over again. Something in the back of your mind registers and you realise this is not going to be for your enjoyment, not just yet anyway. 

Was it possible for him to push you further into the wall? You thought not, but he’s trying as your head falls forward onto his shoulder, profanities being exchanged at a rate of knots, your body moving and accommodating his will. 

All other sensation leaves you as you focus on what’s happening at your core; everything tightening and flashing warm. He’s moving easily in and out of you, driving his own punishing rhythm and he’s well aware of what it’s doing to you. He can read you, read your mind and your body and he pulls out quickly, feeling your release coming, and leaving you teetering on the edge of the abyss. No, this isn’t for your enjoyment, this is for your punishment and you realise this as you slide down the wall and rest on your haunches. 

You watch him and don’t want to beg; he enjoys that more than the sex itself, if that’s possible, but you know your eyes are betraying you. You watch his figure move to the moulded plastic bench jutting out from the opposite wall and he takes a seat there, clothing still intact bar the zip on his pants. 

He summons you, sitting regally as if on a throne, one hand resting each side of him, his eyes and frown set upon you. You do as you’re told and pad your way across the cell towards him. He’s still as hard as the moment he first entered you, and you straddle him, taking hold of his prick and guiding it back into you as he pulls you down onto him, forcibly, his hands on your hips. Your eyes snap shut and his hands glide effortlessly over your thighs, your hips and your arse, pulling you back into him each time you move your hips in an effort to quench your thirst. 

Normally immovable, he plays to you and lets you push his shoulders back into the wall behind him, his head hitting the wall with a dull thud. He knows you can’t come in such an awkward position, which is why he insists that it happens. His hands on your hips, pulling you down onto him over and over again, knees sore and legs weakened by continual effort. 

You relax into his grip again and let him lead the way. Perhaps this time he’ll let you stay the course, and you kiss him feverishly. His lips, his tongue, the centre of your attention for the moment, the heady sensation of having him all over again takes over your senses, again everything drowning out around you. Neither of you care who can see you, or who can’t see you, nor that your cell is completely see through and visible as you hold on and ride him for dear life. He leaves you the impression that you’re going to get your own way this time, small grunts escaping him occasionally. 

Again, as you’re set to reach your peak he heaves you off of his hulking figure as if it were no effort at all. Your eyes are watering from the sweet ache building inside you, and he knows you know what he’s doing. Your legs like jelly, you stand up off the floor, not letting him beat you. This is what he enjoys; you fight back just as much as he fights you. You walk over towards the glass wall of the brig, looking at all the computing, panels and screens around you. Silent and furtive as a hawk, he’s behind you again, pushing your legs apart with his own feet. 

“See all this Lieutenant Commander? Look around you,” he commands, pulling your hips into him. 

“Yes sir,” your voice breathy as he enters you again, your body far more accommodating in this position. 

“You and I, we will destroy this,” 

“Yes,” you nod, feeling one of his arms wrap around your front, keeping you steady against him. 

His spare hand is tracing its way along your skin, one single finger tracing a line from the back of your thigh, up your hips, and across your stomach being careful to not inflame your wound before it finds solace between your legs. He wouldn't need to do anything before you’re a begging mess in his arms and so you take his hand in yours and hold it up against the glass wall and use the both of you as a brace.

“Will you help me?” his pace is punishing and you’re not sure how much more you’ll be able to handle. 

“Yes,” you manage quietly. 

“Why?” he demands. 

“Because I’m yours,” your forehead resting against the glass. 

Unhappy with your resting, you soon feel fingers curl their way around your throat. Again, you know he won’t hurt you and you let him go and his grip tightens again, holding you up straight against his body. He’s going to let you finish this time, your back arches out as he fucks you relentlessly, small cries escaping the both of you. 

Your legs give out from under you as cry out for a God that doesn't exist. There is no God, only him and he stills, legs taught against your thighs as he empties himself inside you, holding you up until he’s taken what’s his. He lets you go and you slump against the glass, exhausted and catching your breath. 

He looks as perfect as the day you met him, except for a few stray strands of hair that have come loose and flop over his eyes. His pants are done up and he stretches out on the bench as if to use it for a bed. 

You replace your pants, for what good it will do, and climb onto the bench with him. He adjusts so that your back is against the wall, leaving him open to defend should anyone come into the room. 

“I knew there was a reason I picked you,” he murmurs as you start to slide into unconsciousness. 

“I came to you, you didn’t pick me,” you remind him. 

“Good girl,” he smiles as he rests on his arm, “Now get some rest; we have plans to see to,”


End file.
